


Survivors

by Over_the_rainbow



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Divergence, Communication Issues, F/M, Grieving, Heavy Drinking, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Missing Scene, affection-deprived fools
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 16:38:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19255057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Over_the_rainbow/pseuds/Over_the_rainbow
Summary: Avenging Aiden had been, among many other things, a way to distract himself, so he wouldn't really think about what happened. It still hurt like hell, but at least it kept him busy. Now Karadin is on the ground before him and he can't escape the dark holes in his mind anymore.





	Survivors

**Author's Note:**

> cdpr are cowards they wouldn't give us Lambert in a happy relationship so they killed Aiden before the game started (don't talk to me about Lambert/Keira because the thought of those two together is just weird)
> 
> beta-ed by the wonderful layton_kyouju!! Thank you for correcting my english and showing me that i use too little commas when i thought i used too many <3

Karadin is prone on the ground and Lambert towers over him, fists clenched so hard that the leather of his gloves is straining. The man claimed to be a witcher, but he never saw Lambert's punch coming, and now he has blood dripping out of his nose and a split lip. He ought to be thankful to be alive still, given how Lambert has been radiating unadulterated fury at Geralt's side ever since they set foot in here.

“Give me one good reason why I should spare you,” he asks in a taut voice, like it's physically difficult for him to articulate.

He may be on the ground with a bloody face, but Karadin still looks like he's the one in control of the situation – or at least tries to look the part; they can both hear his heart beating wildly in his chest. He's grown soft, thinks Geralt. It's been too long since he found himself confronted to the tip of a blade, and he forgot what it felt like.

He tries to steady his breathing and, managing to tear his gaze away from the sword to look Lambert in the eye, he says in a composed tone:

“Aiden wouldn't want you to do this.”

“Wrong answer,” growls Lambert, and he cuts a deep gash into Karadin's wrist when he reaches for his own sword.

Karadin howls out in pain, clutching his injured arm against his chest. He looks up at Lambert and there's tears running down his face; despite all his sorrowful words from earlier, he only cries for himself. When Lambert raises his sword again, tired of his whining, he cries out,

“W-wait! I have money... I'll give you anything you want, I'll make you rich, I promise–”

Lambert bashes his head against the garden's wall before he has the time to finish his sentence. He leans over to clean the blood off his sword on Karadin's clothes then turns away from him with a scowl, like the sight of him disgusts him. He's still breathing, although faintly, and he'll probably have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. Geralt motions at him.

“You sure about this?”

“I'm sure that I want to get out of here. And that I need a drink. Or ten.”

  
  


They go back to the inn. Lambert doesn't say anything. His jaw is clenched so hard that it's a wonder he manages to loosen it enough to gulp down the first drink that is put in front of him. He drinks like he has been going months without water, never stopping to breath between swallows. He goes through three tankards like this before finally slowing down. He already begins to look loosened up, but not in the relaxed way they let themselves fall into whenever they decide to get drunk together on long winter evenings, more like a rope that has been knotted too tightly and used too many times, and when the knot comes loose, it never goes back to its old shape.

“Wanna talk about what happened?” Geralt asks carefully, not looking up from the beer he's been sipping.

“Hell no,” Lambert immediately answers, but after a moment it begins to spill out of him like he doesn't have any control over it: “Can't believe– the nerve to say stuff like that! Saying he's fucking sorry for my loss... as if that's gonna bring him back... Couldn't stand looking at him, standing there in his nice clothes, in his nice house, with his nice wife he was probably thinking about fuckin' ploughing tonight, while Aiden's rotting in a hole somewhere...”

He was trembling with rage, fists clenching and unclenching, but his voice falters over the last few words. He swallows with difficulty, like he's pushing a sob back down. Geralt remains silent. He can't think of anything that would make him feel better. Perhaps nothing would. Listening is the best thing he can do for him right now.

“The villagers, the ones from the village where he got his last contract – they wouldn't give him a proper burial, you know? They said it was bad luck, that the land around his tomb would decay and only bear rotten trees. I dug a hole outside of the town's limits so they couldn't do anything about it. They almost spat in my face when I came back. I told them something about how witcher's remains were cursed, in case one of them decided to steal the few possessions Karadin's gang had left on his body. I think– I think that would've made him laugh, the fear on the supersitious fucks' faces. Always liked to have fun at other people's expense.”

The tone would have been fond, if the tenderness hadn't been drowned in misery. Geralt sees him lose himself in his memories for a moment, his eyes clouded over.

“So you buried him in the end.”

“Yeah.” He shakes himself back to reality. “I made the hole as nice as possible, but it wasn't very... he, he deserved better. And when I was done, there wasn't anyone to give him a eulogy, so I tried. I fucked that up too – wasn't exactly sober.”

“You didn't mess up,” offers Geralt as gently as he can. “You gave him the best burial a witcher could hope for.”

Lambert doesn't react, staring into his drink, and he starts wondering if his words ever reached him when he hears him say, in a voice so low he barely understands: “Nothing is too good for him.”

“Hey, you did your best, you hear me? Most of the time when a witcher dies on the path, the only reason anyone notices is because they never came back to claim their reward. Witchers die among strangers at best, alone or surrounded by foes at worst. You gave him the chance to die with a friend.”

Lambert slams his hands on the table. “And he never would have died at all if I'd been a better friend!!” Around them, some startled patrons start glancing in their direction, and those who had been only glancing begin to overtly stare. Lambert drops himself back into his seat and buries his face in his hands. “If I'd been there when he needed someone to have his back...”

Geralt puts a hand on his arm, gently, like he's trying to soothe a wild animal. Lambert doesn't react. It says something about how much he's hurting. “Please don't blame yourself. It wasn't your fault.”

“How d'you know that?” He sniffles. “You weren't there.”

“Would he blame you?”

“...Yeah? I don't– I don't know. Now I'll never know.”

It's the closest he's ever been to seeing Lambert cry. Lambert the smartass, who's always acting tough or talking back. Geralt averts his eyes, tries to give him as much privacy as he can. He wants to put his hand on his shoulder and tell him that everything's going to be fine, but he knows that's not true. He knows because he _understands_ , like all of those who have lost someone and blames themselves for it.

“Lambert.”

He looks up at him. There's something wet at the corner of his eyes.

“I don't want to lie to you. It's not gonna get easier, not for a long time. The people who care about you will tell you that it's not your fault, as many times as you need to hear it, and maybe one day you'll believe them, but deep down, you'll keep blaming yourself for even being alive while he's gone. My only piece of advice is, don't drink too much. Keep yourself busy instead. It won't hurt any less – you'll just pay less attention to it.”

Lambert just stares at him. He looks dazed; the alcohol has definitely kicked in by now. He lets out a weak laugh. “Fuck, Geralt, I wasn't asking you to tell fucking jokes either, but oh, man.” He covers his eyes with a hand.

“You ok?”

“Ask me again in five minutes.”

Geralt nurses his beer silently. Lambert keeps his head down for a few moments, then he grabs his drink and downs it. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then meets Geralt's eyes. “Who was it?”

“Uh?”

“The one you lost.”

He has a small, sad smile. The right answer would be, someone he had been dangerously close to being in love with. He'll never not love Yennefer – it's as simple as breathing, he can't live without it – but his treacherous heart can't help wanting love in different places.

“He was a... an admirable man.”

Lambert looks like he's about to say something but thinks better of it and gestures for the waitress to come closer to their table instead. “Let's get hammered.”

  
  


They drink much more than they ought to, even with witcher metabolisms. They make less and less sense every time they ask for more drinks, but they don't look like they'll stop ordering anytime soon. Geralt is well-acquainted with drunk Lambert – Kaer Morhen's cellars are full of spirits that it would be a shame to let go to waste, and on some winter evenings, drinking becomes a bit too recreational for Vesemir's taste – but he's never seen Lambert get this talkative. He talks about Aiden, mostly; about how he had plans to drag him to Kaer Morhen with him one of these days so he could introduce him to them. He knows Cats don't have a stellar reputation, but he's sure they would have gotten along, or at least tolerated each other.

“He has a way with people. I'm an ass, but a week after I met him, I would've slept on the floor if he'd asked me to let him have the bed. There's no way Vesemir won't like him.”

Then he realizes he's talking about it like it's still going to happen and there's an awkward pause where they both stare at the bottom of their tankards. Then he decides he's not drunk enough and asks for more drinks.

He tells him details about Aiden, embarrassing details, mostly. Like the fact that he hugged Lambert in his sleep, or that he was scared of thunder. He smiles as he's talking, but sometimes his expression shifts in the middle of a sentence, like a ghost just went through him. He shivers through what Geralt assumes is a sob, then he's back with him. Geralt pretends he doesn't notice and wonders if that's the right thing to do.

After a while he stops talking and loses himself in the contemplation of something that Geralt can't see. For a moment it seems that he doesn't have anything else to say, but suddenly he speaks again:

“For a while we did everything together,” Lambert says, still staring into space. “Working on contracts, sharing shitty booze, sleeping in the same bed. The innkeeper thought we couldn't afford separate rooms. I didn't care if people started whispering behind our backs as long as he was with me. For a while, I didn't care about anything. The disgusted faces people made at us, the shitty contracts and the shittier pay. He made the worst parts of the job bearable. Once he made me laugh while I was knee-deep in mud and covered in some creature's viscera. I started telling myself, maybe life isn't so bad, you know? Maybe I deserve something good after all... But I guess I– guess I don't.”

“Oh, Lambert... You really think that?”

But Lambert doesn't hear him. The thousand-yard stare is back on his face, and Geralt retreats in his own thoughts until he comes back to him.

  
  


Comes a point where coherence deserts them entirely. Lambert keeps trying and failing to finish a sentence without slurring and Geralt, who's barely less drunk than him, stares at him stupidly. The waitress comes one last time to suggest that maybe it's time they went home and they get into a fight about who's going to pay for all the drinks: Geralt says that they're on him but Lambert argues that he may not be the famed White Wolf, but he can still pay for his own drinks. In the end it's unclear who has the final word, but they both leave the waitress a huge tip, mostly because at this point they are incapable of making simple additions.

It's raining when they get outside. Lambert yells obscenities at the sky and after a while, a guy opens his window to tell him to shut up. Something about that makes Lambert laugh so hard that he loses his balance and lands on his ass in a puddle. Geralt, who keeps a hand against the wall because his head started spinning the moment he got up, tries to help him back on his feet but Lambert is a dead weight and he ends up falling on the ground next to him.

He doesn't try to get back up. He figures, the closer he is to the ground, the safer it is, and the cobblestones feel wonderfully cool against his cheek; it makes the throbbing inside his skull a bit more bearable. If it weren't for the way the rain slips under his armor, he would have fallen asleep on the spot.

“Look at us,” says Lambert. “Kaer Morhen's best and brightest.”

“Vesemir would be so proud,” Geralt mutters against the ground.

Lambert is lying on his back. Raindrops catch in his eyelashes, make it look like there's tears running down his cheeks. He takes a sharp breath.

“I loved him, you know.”

Geralt doesn't say anything.

“Sometimes I dream of him. Then I wake up, and for a second, it becomes too hard.”

“What becomes too hard?”

Lambert does a vague hand gesture. “Life.”

Geralt tentatively pats his arm. Lambert twitches but doesn't push him away. “Let's get you somewhere dry.”

Geralt patiently guides him back to the room Lambert has been renting. He has him take off his damp clothes and wrapped in a blanket. Lambert doesn't protest; he looks dazed, like someone hit him a little too hard on the head. He sits on his bed, staring into space until Geralt makes him gently lie down on his side. There is only one bed, so he kneels into a meditation stance and waits for Lambert's breathing to slow before closing his eyes.

  
  


“What did I tell you last night?” Lambert asks after they've woken up. He eyes him cautiously, like there's a good and a bad answer and he's bracing himself for the bad one.

“You talked about Aiden. Mostly about Aiden,” Geralt replies on a neutral tone. Anything can set him off when he's this vulnerable.

He doesn't seem to relax, though. “What did I tell you about him?”

“What do you want me to tell you, Lambert? Is this about the fact that you two were more than friends?”

He grits his teeth. Just woken up and already angry, although Geralt can't tell who it is directed at. He hoped he would be too hungover to work himself up like this, but apparently it's just a natural state for him.

“You got something to say about that?” Lambert barks.

“Why would I?”

That shuts him up for a solid ten seconds. Then he asks, puzzled:

“You don't find it weird?”

“It's weird if you make it weird.”

He stares at him but doesn't say anything else. Geralt is thankful for the silence; his head hurts too much for him to have an argument. He goes to splash water on his face and check on his clothes where he hung them last night, see if they've dried up, but he stands up too quickly and sucks air through his teeth when blood rushes up to his head. There are sounds of rummaging behind him.

“Here, take this.”

Lambert tosses him a vial filled with a milky, syrupy liquid. It's White Honey; there's barely enough for one person.

“What about you?”

“Don't worry about me. I don't have it as bad as you do.”

Geralt highly doubts that – his memories from last night aren't exactly limpid, but from what he does remember, he knows Lambert drank much more than him – but he decides not to say anything. Lambert's rare kindnesses are easily taken back when pointed out.

  
  


Lambert is miserable all morning long and hides it more or less well. Geralt can tell that he can't wait to be left alone so he can lick his wounds in peace, and it's not like he wants to hang around either – hungover Lambert is like a faulty bomb, it can explode in your face at any moment – but something makes him put off the moment he'll take his leave. He doesn't know what exactly; he just feels it at the back of his head.

He has to go eventually. Lambert has long stopped trying not to be rude and practically throws him out at one point. Willing to avoid another outburst, Geralt complies.

“See you soon in Kaer Morhen?” he tells him on the doorstep.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You'll be there, right? Winter's going to be long without you.”

Lambert gives him a weird look. “And where else would I go?”

Somewhere I can't drag your ass out of, Geralt wants to say. He keeps it to himself; maybe Lambert didn't mean what he told him last night, maybe he's just imagining things. But he's not taking any chances.

He puts a hand on his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

Lambert doesn't know how to react. He laughs a little, awkwardly.

“I mean it.”

The hand lingers a little too long. He can feel him bristle under his touch; and suddenly it hits him that his time is about to run out, that Lambert is going to push him out of his space and that it will be the last time he'll ever see him, because there's a lot of stupid shit that you do when you're messed up in the head, and accidents happen all the time, especially when you're looking for them. There's so many things he wants to tell him but Lambert is too sober to hear them – he wants to tell him that he has a home to return to and a family that tolerates him on the worst days but will always put their lives on the line for him; that he knows they fight all the time but that he won't recover if Lambert were to leave his life, because he can't take it anymore, he can't take another person leaving him the burden to keep on living with nothing but memories and the taste of ash in his mouth.

He opens his mouth even though he's not sure of what to begin with. Maybe Lambert feels it; maybe he sees something in his eyes that's enough to scare him off, and in one motion he shrugs off the hand on his shoulder and shuts the door.

He's still standing on the other side, maybe one hand on the latch, like he's worried Geralt is going to force his way back in. He doesn't. He's been trespassing enough.

All he can do now is hope and trust his brother – and pray, maybe, send a quick prayer to whoever's listening, in case there's a god out there willing to lend an ear to someone like him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> okkk! This is the first project i've managed to finish in months AND the first time i write something in english, so i hope it won't be too clunky....  
> kudos and comments are extremely appreciated!! I love the witcher with my whole heart and I want to keep writing for this fandom, but kind words will definitely give me an energy boost (translation: gimme that sweet sweet validation)


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